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“Oh, Mum.” My hand flies to my head. Poor Vicky. “Is she okay?” Connie glances up briefly with a reflex frown.
“Yes, yes,” Mum insists, “she’s fine. It’s about time she faced up to her problems instead of taking it all out on your poor brother. They’ve put her on something called… Lionel,” she calls out to Dad, “what anti-depressants is Vicky on?”
“Zoloft,” he shouts.
“Did you hear that, darling?”
“Yes, Mum. Look I’d better go, thanks for letting me know. I’ll give Vicky a call later…yes…bye…bye. Love you too.”
I put my phone on the table and take a gulp of lukewarm coffee. The older couple shuffle chairs at an adjacent table as they gaze around the impressive patisserie. He reminds me a bit of my dad, actually, white thinning hair, stocky, orange tan. “You sit over there,” he commands to his wife, pulling out a chair and throwing a glance in our direction, and the small, mature, grey-haired woman does as she’s told.
“Well?” Connie is looking at me expectantly, arms folded. “Will you do it?” My lips part but I’m saved by my phone vibrating on the table.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she huffs, “you’re worse than a bloody teenager.”
“Sorry, Connie, this really has got to be your dad.” Connie, clearly narked, snatches her phone off the table and starts texting, fingers whizzing over the keyboard furiously.
I squint at the lit up screen: Nick calling. Shit.
“Well?” Connie says, her eyes not leaving her phone, “Aren’t you going to answer it? Don’t want to keep his highness waiting.” No, I don’t suppose we do.
“Hi,” I say in an unintended piercing tone.
“Hey, Foxy.” I’m surprised at how normal it feels to hear his voice. “How’re you?”
“Yes, yes…fine.” My eyes don’t leave Connie. “You?” “Okaaaay,” he says tentatively, “have I called at a bad time?” He knows me so well.
“Kind of,” I laugh nervously, tapping my fingertips on the rim of my cup.
Connie gives me a fleeting glance, “Tell Dad that Mum wants to talk to him about some property thingy. I think it’s for your oldies.”
“You didn’t reply to my text earlier,” Nick says, “did it come through?” I murmur a response, pressing the handset so close to my ear that it hurts. I don’t want Connie to hear his voice, and Nick does have quite a loud voice. “Anyway, it was just to say thank you for being so understanding last Monday. It meant a lot.” I hear him taking a long lug on a cigarette. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that we’re friends again.” He pauses for my response but I stay silent. “Look I know you can’t talk but I was wondering if you were free for a drink tonight.” He pauses again, “As mates,” he adds quickly. “Thought we could pop into The Flask.”
“No, I can’t tonight.” Actually, I don’t think I can on any night. I’m sure that cosying up with my ex on one of the snug seats in The Flask won’t go down too well with Daniel.
Connie’s eyebrows knot in concentration. “Can’t what?”
I wish she’d stop interfering in my telephone conversation, for goodness sake, she’s putting me off. I push the coffee cup away and rest my forearm on the table, twiddling with my left earring.
“No problem,” Nick says. “Look, I know you can’t talk. I’ll call back another time.”
“That sounds great,” I say, feeling relieved, ‘Okay, bye…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Yes, I will do…bye…bye.” Why do people lower their tone at the end of a conversation? I can never figure it out, yet I feel completely compelled to do so every time.
“So?” Connie chucks her phone onto the table and folds her arms. “Why didn’t you pass on my message?”
“Well.” I rub my lips. “Because it wasn’t your dad.”
“ooOOoo.” She raises her eyebrows and adjusts in her seat as her phone tingles with a message. “Ha, it’s Dad.” She taps the screen, “Just to say that we’re on for tonight.” Well, he’s clearly blown me out, then. “Lily hasn’t seen him for a few days. I texted this morning and asked if he fancied meeting up for a pizza. He says you’re coming along too.” Oh, does he now? Connie swirls the liquid in her cup, loosening the last dregs of chocolate then knocks it back, swishing it around in her mouth as if it were a Merlot before swallowing and licking her lips.
“So, come on.” Connie gently taps my ankle with her foot under the table, “Who was the mysterious caller? I hope you’re not cheating on my old man already.” She grins wickedly, but I don’t miss the sudden flinch in her green eyes.
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. It was…” I falter, “…a colleague, if you must know. Now about that delivery,” I say, steering her off the subject, “just a ten-minute job, you say?”
26
I love Daniel’s two-bedroom flat despite it being on the first floor of a house conversion with no garden. It’s luxurious and plush and in a leafy part of West Hampstead. But it is very blokey – all open plan with lots of black furniture. He’s even got a black floor lamp, which he said he bought from Portobello Market. He reckons it’s retro but I just think it looks ugly. The pièce de résistance - as he calls it - is a fireplace that is integrated into the wall housing a two-foot gold Buddha. Clearly never used. Yes, it’s very much a bachelor pad, no room for a permanent fixture, such as a wife for instance, which is just as well because I’ve gone right off that idea.
My first port of call is the loo. Thanks to Connie plying me with two large cups of coffee and half-a-gallon of lemon infused water, which she insisted we drank because she paid for it, I’m now bursting to go. I dash into the bathroom adjacent to the second bedroom; Connie’s room, as it’s known. It’s the only room kitted out in pastel colours and has a few of Lily’s dolls and teddy bears lying on the bed. It’s sacred. We’re not allowed in there.
